Poetry: From the July/August 2009 issue | See all poetry
Earthworms
It is raining again this morning, and I am remembering
it rained then, too, the summer morning
things almost came to be. We lay crosswise
on the bed. The curtains grazed our heads
when they were quickened by damp wind. Outside
the earth was opening and the worms had surfaced,
blind. They have eaten every bit of dirt
that makes our yard. They turn the soil
the way, in bed at night, we turn the story
of the child whose heart we never heard,
the child who never heard rain. And we don’t
care, we let it surface—we open
ourselves, from time to time, to happiness.
